An Anonymous Girl(59)
“Why don’t I put the flowers in the library for you?”
Thomas’s offer feels abrupt. He must realize it, too, because he quickly smiles.
But it isn’t one of his wide, natural smiles that reaches to his eyes.
He picks up the vase and heads toward the library.
When he is followed, he hestiates.
“You know, coffee sounds really good after all,” he says. “I’d love a cup if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Wonderful. I just brewed a pot.”
This is a good sign. Thomas wants to linger.
The coffee is fixed just the way he likes it, with a splash of real cream and brown sugar. A quick glance at my phone reveals you have not yet texted to report any response from Thomas.
When the tray is brought into the library, Thomas is still positioning the vase atop the Steinway.
He spins around, a surprised look on his face.
It’s almost as though he forgot he requested the beverage.
What has startled him?
A reminder of the stakes is necessary.
“Thomas, I’ve been wondering, where did you ever decide to put that falcon sculpture?”
It takes him a moment to answer. But when he does, it is pleasing: “In my bedroom, on the dresser. I see it every night when I go to sleep, and every morning when I wake up.”
“Perfect.” Then: “Why don’t we sit?”
He perches on the edge of the love seat and immediately reaches for his cup. He takes a quick sip, then jerks back, nearly spilling the hot liquid.
“You seem a bit unsettled. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?”
He hesitates. Then he seems to come to a decision.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I just wanted to see you so I could tell you how much I love you.”
This is better than any other outcome that was envisioned.
Until Thomas glances at his watch and abruptly rises to his feet.
“I have a lot of paperwork I need to get to,” he says ruefully. His fingertips drum against his jeans-clad thigh. “I don’t know my schedule yet for the week, but I’ll call you after I figure it out.”
He departs as quickly and unexpectedly as he arrived.
There are two strange things about Thomas’s hasty exit.
He did not offer me a parting kiss.
And aside from that single sip, the coffee he seemed so eager for remained untouched.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, December 16
I’m sitting on a bench right outside Central Park, holding a cup of coffee I can’t drink. My stomach is too knotted to tolerate more than a sip of the bitter brew.
Their texts come in almost simultaneously.
From Dr. Shields: Jessica, any response from Thomas yet?
From Thomas: I got the proof. Can you meet me tonight?
I don’t answer Dr. Shields, because there’s not going to be any response from Thomas about a date. Although I typed the text asking him out for drinks while she sat watching me in her town house, I never actually sent it.
That was the first of two lies I told to Dr. Shields this morning. I also didn’t have a BeautyBuzz client booked today, like I pretended. I just needed to get away from her.
I don’t reply to Thomas, either. There’s someone else I need to see first.
Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s research assistant, lives on West Sixty-sixth Street.
As soon as it hit me that he was the only person I’d met who might know the truth about her, he was surprisingly easy to find. At least the apartment his parents own was.
After the doorman called up to announce my arrival, a man who looked exactly like Ben would in thirty years emerged from the elevator.
“Ben’s not here,” he said. “If you want to leave your number, I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
The doorman gave me a piece of paper and a pen and I jotted down my information. Then I realized Ben might not remember me out of the procession of women in Dr. Shields’s study.
I was Subject 52, I wrote, then folded the paper in half.
That was more than an hour ago, and I still haven’t heard from him. I lift my arms over my head to stretch my back, listening as Mariah Carey’s voice singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” drifts over from Wollman Rink. I came here a lot when I first moved to New York, but I haven’t skated yet this year.
Just as I stand up to throw my coffee cup in the trash can, my phone rings.
I snatch it up, then see Noah’s name.
After everything that’s happened this weekend, I almost forgot we were supposed to meet for dinner tonight.
“Italian or Mexican,” he says when I answer. “Either of those sound good?”
I hesitate as another unwelcome image of Thomas in bed, tangled in the sheets, springs into my mind.
I shouldn’t feel guilty; I’ve only seen Noah twice. And yet I do.
“I’d love to see you, but could we do something low-key?” I ask. “I’ve had a really stressful day.”
He takes it in stride. “Why don’t we just stay in, then? I can open a bottle of wine and order in Chinese. Or I could come to your place?”
I can’t go on a date and make normal conversation right now. But I don’t want to cancel on this guy.
A deep voice comes over the PA system for the ice rink: “We’re going to take a ten-minute break to Zamboni the ice. Go grab some hot chocolate and we’ll see you soon!”